The Dream Comes True

by Barbara Delinsky

  “He’s saying ‘daddy’?” she whispered from under the sheet. Her hand was on his hip. She left it there.

  “Yup.” The door opened and his voice picked up. “Hi, sport, how’re you doing?” From under the sheet, Nina could feel the movement as he signed. Seconds later, she felt a small bundle hit the end of the bed, but it slid off nearly as quickly, followed by the patter of small feet leaving the room on the run. “Smart kid,” John muttered. “He saw your clothes. He’s off to the guest room.” Leaning close to the sheet, he warned, “Last chance, Nina. If he finds you in my bed, there’s no going back. I can still make up some excuse for your clothes—”

  Her hand slid over his hip just far enough to make him jump. “What excuse will you give for this?” He was still fully aroused.

  “Uh, he doesn’t have to, uh, see that. Damn it, Nina, don’t play with me now. Are you staying, or aren’t you? I have to know for sure.”

  “For J.J.?”

  “For me. He’ll have his own life, and I want mine. I want you in it. What do you say?”

  “I may be a lousy wife.”

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  “I may be a lousy mother.”

  “No way. Come on, Nina. Is it a yes?”

  Beneath the sheets, Nina was flying high as a kite. “I need the magic words.”

  “I love you.”

  “Again.”

  “I love you!”

  “Louder.”

  “I love you!”

  The shout was barely out when the patter of feet announced J.J.’s return. “Didn’t find her?” Nina heard John ask. She felt movement, then all was suspiciously quiet until, with a gleeful guffaw, J.J. pulled back the sheet and jumped on the bed. John caught him seconds before he would have pounced on Nina’s stomach, but she was up and laughing, being hugged by them both in no time flat.

  Never before had she felt so happy, so whole, so loved.

  Epilogue

  The sun was warm on their skin, but it felt good. The winter had been a long, snowy one. Spring had finally come.

  Leaning back against John, whose body was a more comfortable chaise than any other she had ever tried, Nina took a deep, deep breath and let it out in an appreciative, “Mmm, does this feel good?”

  His mouth tickled her ear. “The sun or me?”

  She hooked her arms around his thighs, which rose alongside her hips. “Both. This is an absolutely gorgeous spot.”

  They were at Crosslyn Rise, sprawled on the lawn that sloped toward the sea. Behind them, on the crest of the hill, stood the mansion, its multichimneyed roof, newly pointed bricks and bright white Georgian columns setting it off against a backdrop of evergreen lushness and azure sky. To the left and right were more trees, many newly budded, and beyond the trees, grouped in clusters, were two dozen condominiums, all finished, all occupied, all spectacular. Before them, at the foot of the hill, was the small marina with its pristine docks and proud-masted yachts, and the row of shops that included an art gallery, a clothing boutique, a sports shop, a video store, two small restaurants, a drugstore and The Leaf Turner.

  “Are you sorry we didn’t buy a place here?” John asked.

  “Not on your life. It’s enough that you have the bookstore. Besides, I love the Victorian, especially now.” As soon as John had moved the Leaf Turner to Crosslyn Rise, they had repossessed the first floor of the house. What with the professional expertise of Carter Molloy and Gideon and Christine Lowe, they had renovated the place into something neither one of them had dared dream of. Nina might have done even more—finished the attic as a playroom for J.J. or built on an attached garage—had not John been vehement that the bulk of her Crosslyn Rise profit was to go into an account in her own name. He didn’t care if it sat there untouched for years, he told her, just so long as she knew it was there, for her, should she want or need it.

  He understood where she’d come from. He was special that way.

  But then, she mused, lazily shifting her bare feet in the warm, soft grass, he was special in lots of ways. Like his concern for her. There was times when she could swear that his only goal in life was to make her happy.

  “Are you sure,” his deep voice came now, “that you wouldn’t like to rent a small space here for you?”

  “Can’t do,” she said with pride. “We’re leased to one-hundred-percent capacity.”

  “But when something opens up.”

  “Nope. I’m happy where I am.” She was still at Crown Realty, with Chrissie handling her pink slips and Lee, albeit engaged to a wonderful guy now, backing her up.

  “You don’t ever think about having your own agency, not even for a minute, for old times’ sake?”

  Tipping her head against his arm, she looked up into his face. How many times she’d seen those strong features in the past two years, seen them in every light and mood, and it seemed that she only loved each one more. “When do I have time to think about having my own agency? My life is so full.” Full as opposed to busy. There was a difference.

  “But you wanted to be independent.”

  “I am. I work when I want and come home when I want.” She touched his cheek. “It’s a pretty nice deal.” She paused. “Why don’t you look convinced?”

  “I just worry sometimes. I think back to when I met you and remember all the things you wanted—”

  “What did I want?” she cut in to ask in a rhetorical way. “I wanted my own business, but that doesn’t mean anything to me now, because I have enough else to do that I don’t want the responsibility. I wanted lots of money, and I have it, right in the bank.”

  “You wanted freedom—”

  “Which is just what I’ve got. You’ve made me free.” The words had slipped out on their own, but she thought about them for a minute, finally saying a soft and knowing, “It’s true. I used to think that loving meant being a slave to another human being. But loving you isn’t that way at all. You make me feel whole and important and secure. You give me strength to do new things.” With a mischievous grin, she said, “I’ve bloomed.”

  Chuckling, he moved his hand over the flaming orange tunic that covered her belly. “Just a little, but it’s in there.”

  Covering his hand, she held it fast where it was as she looked up into his eyes. “I’m so excited,” she whispered, barely able to contain it.

  “Not scared?”

  “Sure, scared.”

  “But you’ve been a super mom to J.J.”

  “J.J.’s a big boy.” Her eyes took on an added glow. “He’s doing so well. I’m so proud of him.” The special school he was at—the one John had financed with his share of the profit from Crosslyn Rise—was doing wonderful things for him. He had lots of friends. He was reading, writing, signing, lipreading, even talking in his way. He, too, was blooming. “But a little baby, a little baby is different.”

  “We’ll do it together,” John said with quiet confidence.

  Doing things together was pretty much the story of their marriage, which was another reason why Nina hadn’t once felt that she’d given something up in teaming with John. He was an able man, an able father and husband. He had been just as self-sufficient, as she before they’d met, and he could easily be self-sufficient, as could she. The fact that they chose to share whatever load it was they were bearing at a given time, was a tribute to their mutual respect and love.

  In the months since they had been married, Nina had done something she had sworn never to do. She had grown dependent—dependent on John for his love. But while once that would have terrified her, it didn’t now. She trusted him. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would always have his love.

  Feeling happy and hopeful, if hopelessly smitten with the man holding her, Nina gazed out over the picturesque scene ahead and sighed in utter contentment. “There’s something about this place. Carter said it once, and I think it’s true. There’s something in the air here. Crosslyn Rise is a charm. Look at Carter and Jessica and how happy they are w
ith that beautiful little girl of theirs.” She grinned. “I’m glad they bought the unit in the meadow. It’s perfect for them.”

  John kissed the top of her head, then murmured into her hair, “It seems right to have a Crosslyn still here.”

  “Mmm. Even though they spend weeks at a time with Carter’s folks in Florida. I understand it’s a fantastic place that Carter bought for them.” She took a quick breath. “And speaking of fantastic places, the one Gideon is building in Lincoln is going to be incredible—” savvy broker that she was, she couldn’t resist tacking on a self-righteous “—even if he did overpay for the land.”

  “He has the money. Crosslyn Rise did well for him.”

  “In many respects—money, reputation, love. They’re so happy, he and Chris. I love seeing them together.”

  John flashed his wristwatch in front of her nose. “Is it time?”

  She shook her head against his chest. “We have another five minutes.” Since the Crosslyn Rise consortium had formally disbanded, the three couples—the Malloys, the Lowes and the Sawyers—had taken to getting together once a month or so. Sometimes it was for dinner, sometimes for a show, sometimes for an evening of general playing at one or another of their homes. On this particular day, they were having an impromptu lunch at one of the small restaurants on the pier. Nina was looking forward to it.

  Even more, though, she was looking forward to spending the rest of the day with John. Though he was working full-time in the store now that J.J. was in school, he had arranged to have Minna Larken cover for him that afternoon. Likewise, Nina had scheduled all of her appointments for the morning. So they were free. Nina had her monthly checkup with the doctor, which John refused to miss, but after that they were heading into Boston for several hours of walking and shopping and sipping cappucino in sidewalk cafés. They would pick J.J. up at school on the way home.

  It was a wonderful life, Nina mused, and all because of John. Shifting impulsively to face him, she slipped one arm around his neck. “Do you know how much I love you, John Sawyer?”

  The question alone was enough to bring pleasure to his face, which, in turn, enhanced hers. “I think so,” he answered with a soft half smile, “but I wouldn’t mind if you told me again.”

  She didn’t have to. Slipping her other arm around his neck, she gave him a long, breath-robbing, arm-throbbing hug that said it all.

  Read on for an excerpt from the latest novel by Barbara Delinsky

  SWEET SALT AIR

  Available in trade paperback Summer 2014 from St. Martin’s Griffin

  Darkness was dense this far from town. There were no cars here, no streetlights, no welcoming homes, and whatever glow had been cast from Nicole’s place was gone. Trees rose on either side, sharing the narrow land flanking the road with strips of field, and beyond the trees was the rocky shore, lost now in the murk.

  But there was hope. As she walked, she saw proof of a moon behind clouds, etching their edges in silver and spraying more to the side. Those silver beams would hit the ocean in pale swaths, though she could only imagine it from here. But she did hear the surf rolling in, breaking on the rocks, rushing out.

  When the pavement at the edges of the road grew cracked, she moved to the center. This end had always been neglected, a reminder that Cecily didn’t invite islanders for tea. The fact that no repair work had been done said the son was the same.

  She passed a string of birches with a ghostly sheen to their bark, but between the sound of the breeze in their leaves and, always, the surf, she was soothed. The gulls were in for the night, hence no screeching, and if there were sounds of boats rocking at moorings, the harbor was too far away to hear.

  There was only the rhythmic slap of her sneakers on the cracked asphalt—and then another tapping. Not a woodpecker, given the hour. Likely a night creature searching for food, more frightened of her than she was of it. There were deer on Quinnipeague. And raccoons. And woodchucks, possums, and moles.

  The tapping came in bursts of three and four, with pauses between. At one point she stopped, thinking it might be a crick in her sneakers. When it quickly came again, though, she walked on. The closer she got to the Cole house, the louder it was.

  The creaking of bones? Skeletons dancing? That was what island kids said, and back then, she and Nicole had believed it, but that didn’t keep them away. Bob and Angie had forbidden their coming here, so it was definitely something to do. Granted, Charlotte was the instigator, but Nicole wouldn’t be left behind.

  Feeling chilled now, she pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands as the Cole curve approached. That curve was a marker of sorts, as good as a gate. Once past it, you saw the house, and once you saw the house, you feared Cecily. As special as her herbs were and as healing as her brews, she could be punitive.

  But Cecily was dead, and Charlotte was curious. A look wouldn’t hurt.

  Slowing only a tad, she rounded the curve. The thud of her heart felt good. She was alive; she was having an adventure; she was breaking a rule, like the irreverent person she was. The salt air held a tang here, though whether from the nearby pines or adrenaline, she didn’t know.

  Then, like a vision, Cecily’s house was at the distant end of the drive. It was the same two-story frame it had always been, square and plain, with a cupola on top that housed bats, or so the kids used to say. But there were no bats in sight now, no ghostly sounds, nothing even remotely scary. A floodlight was trained on the upper windows, unflattering light on an aging diva. And the sound she heard? A hammer wielded by a man on a ladder. He was repairing a shutter, which would have been a totally normal activity had it not been for the hour.

  Wondering at that, she started down the long drive. The walking was easier here, the dirt more forgiving than broken pavement. An invitation after all? She fancied it was. The house looked sad. It needed a visitor, or so she reasoned as the trees gave way to the gardens where Cecily had grown her herbs. In the darkness, Charlotte couldn’t see what grew here now, whether the low plants were herbs or weeds. She could smell something, though the blend was so complex that her untrained nose couldn’t parse it. Tendrils of hair blew against her cheek; wanting a clear view, she pushed them back.

  Her sneakers made little sound on the dirt as she timed her pace to the pound of the hammer. When the man paused to fiddle with what looked to be a hinge, she heard a rustle in the garden beside her, clearly foraging creatures alerted by her movement.

  Alerted in turn by that rustle, the man stopped pounding and looked back. He must have had night eyes; there was no light where she was. Without moving a muscle, though, he watched her approach.

  Leo Cole. She was close enough to see that, astute enough to remember dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a square jaw. She remembered long, straggly hair, though a watch cap hid whatever was there now. He wore a tee shirt and paint-spattered jeans. Tall and gangly then? Tall and solid now.

  But thin-mouthed in disdain. Then and now.

  “You’re trespassin’,” he said in a voice that was low and rough, its hint of Maine too small to soften it.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, refusing to cower. She had met far more intimidating people in far less hospitable spots.

  His eyes made a slow slide from her to the window and back. “What does it look like?”

  “Repairing your house in the dark.” She tucked her cuffed hands under her arms. “Is that so you won’t see the broken windowpane over there, or do you just like being reckless?”

  He stared at her for another minute. Then, holstering the hammer in his jeans, he climbed down the ladder, lifted a shutter, and, somewhat awkwardly given its bulk, climbed back up. The shutter was wide, clearly functional rather than decorative. Though he carried it one-handed, he stopped twice on the way up to shift his grip. At the top, he braced it against the ladder’s shelf while he adjusted his hands, then lined up hinges and pins.

  He had one hinge attached but was having trouble with the second. She knew what th
is was about. She had worked with storm shutters. They were tricky to do alone.

  Resting the shutter on the shelf again, he pulled the hammer from his waistband and adjusted the hinge with a few well-aimed hits. Then he tried the shutter again.

  Watching him struggle, Charlotte remembered more about Leo Cole from her early days here. Not too bright, they said. Troubled. Stubborn. She had never known him personally; she was only there summers, and he ran with a different crowd. Actually, she corrected silently, he didn’t run with a crowd. A lone wolf, he did damage all on his own, and it was serious stuff. The stories included stealing cars, forging checks, and deflowering sweet young things.

  Those last summers she was on Quinnipeague, he was in state prison, serving time for selling pot. Rumor had it that Cecily was the one who grew it, and Charlotte could believe it, what with medical marijuana use on the rise. The islanders always denied it, of course. They didn’t want the Feds threatening their cures.

  Leo had been nabbed for selling grass on the mainland. Did he still grow it? She couldn’t smell it now, and she did know that smell.

  Having returned the shutter to the shelf, he was readjusting the hinge.

  “Want some help?” she called up.

  He snorted.

  “Four hands, and you’d have that right up,” she advised.

  “Two hands’ll do.”

  Charlotte looked past him toward the cupola. She didn’t see any bats yet, didn’t feel any ghosts. If Cecily’s spirit was floating around, it hadn’t cast a spell to keep Charlotte here. She remained because she was stubborn herself.

  “I’ve done this before,” she said now.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I have. I’ve built houses.”

  “That so.” He didn’t believe her.

  “Half a dozen in El Salvador after the big quake there, and at least as many when tornados decimated parts of Maryland. I know how storm shutters work.”